A Full Life
by Zo One
Summary: Gilbert knew he was going to die young. Drabble; Deathfic


**A Full Life**

Gilbert knew he was going to die young. How young, he couldn't say, but the doctors always projected somewhere in his teens if he continued a healthy lifestyle with minimum stress. He was told to cherish every moment, to love with his whole being, and to be grateful for every precious minute he was given. It was a hard lesson to learn, and it took him a long time to understand why everyone continuously told him the same snippets of fortune cookie wisdoms – not until he met Matthew Williams.

At the age of seventeen love was skewed through kaleidoscope glasses, but Gilbert _knew_ he loved Matthew. When he watched him in class, nibbling on his eraser and at lunch sitting silently next to his obnoxious brother, he knew that Matthew was special. Maybe he didn't know what, but that was the first time Gilbert felt anxious for time – time to understand and time to love.

"Am I walking too fast?"

Gilbert liked the sound of Matthew's voice. It was a soft caress that made him stop and take everything in; it made him slow down and appreciate. "No. Don't worry about me. I can keep up with no problem."

Matthew nodded. He twined their fingers together tightly and took the lead down the asphalt trail. When Matthew found out about Gilbert's condition he hadn't said anything. There were no gasps or tears or worried questions that Gilbert wasn't sure he was ready to answer. Matthew left to think and came back a day later. He had slipped his hands into Gilbert's and said, "Okay. It's okay."

"After this do you want to grab somethin' to eat?" he asked, grinning. He was winded from walking a few yards, and frowned when Matthew slowed his pace. "Hey I'm fine."

"You're tired," Matthew reasoned. They had just rounded a bend and into a forest of evergreens. He laced his fingers behind Gilbert's neck and nuzzled his chest. "Can we just go to the sandwich shop? I feel like cold cuts today."

Gilbert sighed. "Right now? We haven't even gone a full lap! I'm not _that _weak – you don't think I am, right?"

"Nope. I know that I'm hungry though. I'd rather have that sandwich now." He kissed the dimple of Gilbert's chin and laughed. "I love you, you know that right?"

He nodded, but he could never say the words. He loved Matthew with all of his broken heart, but he was dying.

Gilbert Beilschmidt was born with a heart murmur. Sometimes the cardiac muscle corrected itself as it grew, but for Gilbert it got worse. At the age of seven he had already had three open-heart surgeries with an impressive array of scarring across his chest and neck. Walking up a flight of stairs had become nearly impossible by the time he was twelve. He ate little and slept most of the day, his skin lacked any pallor and there were days when he would look in the mirror and realize that he was the definition of "sickly".

He would sit on the couch with his Xbox controller hanging limply from his fingers wondering when he was going to die. Tomorrow? In a year? How would it happen? Maybe he would have a cardiac arrest in a glass elevator at the mall where everyone can watch him seize on the carpeted floor. Or maybe he would be in bed sleeping with his baby chick tucked under his chin and his heart would simply give up and it would be painless. Would Matthew be there? What would he think? Would he grieve?

"Let's go to the clearing."

Matthew frowned. He worried on his lower lip, but he took Gilbert's hand once again and led him up the slight incline. The clearing was a secluded area in the forest with a stone bench. It was a common make-out point for the kids in their school. "Are you sure?" he asked when they took a break halfway up the mound. "I know you hate to hear it, but you look really sick today. You're not pale, but… I don't know you look _gray_."

"I'm fine," he said just as always. Truthfully he could never tell when he was "fine" and when he was "dying". "Let's keep going. We'll take a break when we get there."

There was so much in life that he couldn't do. He would never play a sport, join the military, have sex, or be a parent – things that most people took for granted. His childhood was spent inside a beige hospital room. His friends treated him like he was glass and his mother still snuck into his room at two in the morning to check his pulse. Matthew was the only person who didn't mention his illness – was the only person who let Gilbert pretend he was normal; pretend that he was living.

Matthew ran his fingers through Gilbert's bleach blonde hair as Gilbert lay on the stone bench with his head in Matthew's lap. "Relax," he murmured, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "Take deep breaths."

Gilbert swallowed. His tongue felt too big for his mouth, but he managed to take a deep breath without coughing. "So I might've gone too fast." He grinned. "But I doubt it. I can handle it." He couldn't tell if his heart was beating too fast or if it was beating at all. He closed his eyes and swallowed again.

"Tired?"

"A bit. It's been a long day." It felt impossible to open eyes now. They were weighed down with bags filled with tingling sand. His fingers felt numb as he laced his hands over his stomach. Time felt wrong, as if he were trapped within the same moment, and yet he felt like he was floating along an ebb and flow. "Hey. I wanted to tell you something."

Matthew's fingers hesitated in his hair. "Do you need to take a nap? We can stay here for twenty minutes if you want."

Gilbert tried to shake his head but found he was much too tired to. "No. I wanted to say… a lot of things, but it's mostly… thank you and I love you too. You make me feel alive even though you know I'm dying." He paused when he felt Matthew's warm lips press against his forehead again and again.

"I love you, Gilbert, I love you," he whispered.

"I know," he breathed. "'Gunna sleep now, 'kay?"

Matthew brushed his hair back until he fell asleep, murmuring sweet nothings until he couldn't hear anything anymore.

Gilbert Beilschmidt never woke up. It was impossible to tell if he had lived a full life by the age of seventeen, but who was to tell? Was life measured in moments or the number of people left behind to cry?

He owed Matthew for both.

* * *

_Unimportant Notes: _Hi. I've never written PruCan before but I felt like a drabble.


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